


Rock 'Em Sock 'Em

by Classpectanon



Series: Three Hundred And Sixty Five Ficlets About Homestuck [14]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (Cool it meathead its just oil), Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Bar Fight, Cyborgs, Fighting, Gen, Robot blood, Sparring, Violent Things Happen To Two Robots But They Can Get Repaired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classpectanon/pseuds/Classpectanon
Summary: "'Ello, stranger!"That was about what Dirk's audio sensors picked up before a 300 pound fist went sailing right into his cheek, sending him ass-over-skullplate, tipping off the barstool and then taking it back with him a good five feet.14/365
Relationships: Dirk Strider & John Egbert
Series: Three Hundred And Sixty Five Ficlets About Homestuck [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085684
Kudos: 10





	Rock 'Em Sock 'Em

"'Ello, stranger!"

That was about what Dirk's audio sensors picked up before a 300 pound fist went sailing right into his cheek, sending him ass-over-skullplate, tipping off the barstool and then taking it back with him a good five feet.

Dirk wiped oil from his lips with the back of his hand, landing expertly perched on another, now-vacated barstool (he kicked the previous owner in the face). Normally, this sort of thing would start some sort of huge, stupid bar fight, but when you had two military grade cyborgs in a bar, everything else sort of became irrelevant. The other cyborg laughed. "Just kidding, I know exactly who you are!" They said with the same sort of insipid enthusiasm that one typically reserved for viewing some sort of chipchewer on a wanted screen. As far as Dirk knew, though, not only was he not wanted by any municipality or private military force, he was also distinctly not a chipchewer, so it was that sort of unspoken implication of condescending friendliness that bothered him the most.

J. cracked their knuckles.

"What do you want?" Dirk asked, his voice the same even, androgynous monotone it always was, piping itself cleanly out of his high-fidelity APU.

"What, can't a bot just get in a good scrap now and again?" J. challenge, their voice burnt down to bass rumbles, far more synthetic, old-fashioned than Dirk's. At least three generations behind. "Just kidding! I want my cut."

"Your cut of _what_?" Dirk challenged.

J. frowned, the marionette lines crisscrossing their face pulling their rictus grin into a rictus scowl. "The English job. I was in that building when you stole my kill. Why'd you think, like, 80% of the guards were already KO'd?"

Dirk rubbed his chin. "You're right, I was wondering that. Anyway, no. No, I don't think I will."

J. jerked their neck to the left, producing a loud, metallic crkkkck sound, and then to the right, mirroring it. "Then I'll just have to pawn your spare parts."

Before Dirk could come up with a suitable verbal barb in retaliation, J. picked up a bar stool and hurled it at Dirk with cannonball speeds, only the slim advantages of Dirk's narrow, slender chassis preventing him from taking 30 pounds of lacquered wood to the face at 90 miles an hour. It was pretty clear that this person was built for power, with whirring, hydraulic servos (old-style) on a big, bulky body and arms, the sort of rig normally reserved for heavy warehouse work, although clearly jury-rigged for a little more mobility than that. And probably to remove the corp tagging from the system. Dirk slapped his palms down on his hips, drawing out two long, narrow blade hilts, and attached to them, a length of thick, bladed cord that rapidly stiffened into swords.

J. proceeded to throw another bar stool at him, which Dirk proceeded to slice neatly into thirds with a whirling, acrobatic slash, landing on his footpads on a table closer to J. "Hey! You're gonna have to pay for that!"

"You threw it!" Dirk yelled back, incredulously.

"You sliced it in half!"

"Thirds!"

J. proceeded to flip the entire table with both hands, a loud, gunshot-like hiss of steam escaping the back of their vest as Dirk jumped off, ramming both blades into the ceiling and hanging off of them - benefits of such a light body. J.'s motions were lumbering and slow. Dirk was a fuckin' ninja, with no extraneous clothes to bother them with, unlike this character, who had a vest and jeans that could get caught on shit.

J. threw a third bar stool at him, which he caught with his J. threw a fourth bar stool at Dirk, catching him in the head and knocking him away from one of his swords, sending him sprawling onto the ground, in the center of the crowd. Grabbing a nearby table, J. pulled it up and over their head and then suplexed it behind them, before rolling back onto their feet. "There, now the ground's clear." J. mumbled quietly.

Dirk adjusted their glasses and lunged forward. A searing fast stab with the tip of his cord-blade, just barely avoided, sending a streak of oil into the air from J.'s cheek. J's body moved with bursts of steam power, a knee ramming itself into Dirk's gut, stunning him just long enough for J. to grab Dirk by the synthetic hair fibers and suplex _him_ overhead. Or more of a throw than a suplex, Dirk supposed quietly to himself as he felt a part of his mechanical spine break. Getting up, creaking to his feet, Dirk tapped his thumb twice against the hilt of his blade, causing it to lose cohesion, returning to a whip-like form. "If anyone here doesn't want their throat cut, I recommend--HGGHH!" Dirk tried to warn, only to be met with one of the most outrageously overclocked power fists he had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Dirk went sailing, crashing through tables and into the wall, leaving an approximately Dirk-shaped imprint into the soft wood. At some point, his sword flew out of his hands, scattering somewhere in the crowd. Dirk grit his teeth and spat some oil out onto the floor, charging forward, while J. pounded at their chest with both fists. "Come get some!" They yelled, which Dirk proceeded to abide by delivering a double-footed flying kick to their throat, just enough to send them two steps backwards. Springing off of his hands, Dirk rolled backwards, flicking his feet up J.'s chin to knock it up and then getting into a coiled up position not unlike a frog ready to pounce on an insect.

There was no sword, only a spear - directly crashing the top of his skullplate into J's stomach, grabbing hold of their vest, and pulling himself up vertically. Light enough to dig his fingertips into slots in J's hydraulics, and before he could get his digits crushed by a moving actuator, he threw his entire body up into the air before bringing both feet down on J.'s head with a lethal double ax-kick. Something in J's back broke, spraying oil and white hydraulic fluid across the floor.

"Ouch! That kind of hurt!" J. said, spitting hydraulic fluid on the floor, trying to crack their neck a second time.

Dirk shook his head to flick off flecks of synthsweat and oil, getting into a boxing stance. "Kind of?"

"Yeah, kind of!" J. said, reeling a fist back and going for a big, heavy swing. Too easy. Dirk sidestepped it and came in with a jab, his light little fists catching J. by the unprotected chin. Jab, jab, cross, jab, cross, cross, before his foot got caught, and crushed, under J.'s. "Gotcha!"

A burst of steam shot out from one of the broken hydraulic actuators, blinding Dirk for the split second required for J. to grab hold of Dirk's good arm and rip it completely clean out of its socket, before reeling back like a baseball player and swinging it straight for Dirk's face.

* * *

"So what's the prognosis, doc?" J. asked, rubbing the back of their head nervously. After knocking Dirk out, the loss of hydraulic fluid was enough to make them lock up - thankfully, Dirk was around and had enough good sense to drag them to a nearby ripperdoc, although for why, J. was at a loss. Dirk stared daggers at them from the other examination room.

"Well, are you aware of that bounty money you were both looking forward to spending?" He replied, wiping sweat off his brow. "Forget about it."

"God damnit!" "Motherfucker."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All views, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are appreciated.  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/classpectanon)


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